Snakes are my oldest memory. I remember my three-year-old self, crying and angry, standing on the driveway of our house at Fort Huachucha, Ariz. I watched my dad kill a batch of baby rattlesnakes. I didn't want the snakes to die.
Twice recently, I've revisited snakes. Big Guy and I encountered a 7-foot Burmese python stretched long on the evening pavement near our Laguna Beach cabin. Non-native pythons are crushing the life from the Florida wild. Our find was an impressive specimen--one that used to ride draped lazily around its owner's head (and that would be another story). With reluctance, we called the sheriff, who called the game warden, who removed the now agitated python in a pillow case.
Snakes reentered my thoughts as Sis and I, along with Mom and others, attended the National Storytelling Festival in Jonesborough, Tenn. Two separate tellers--one in front of hundreds of listeners, and the other simply in front of 10--related the story of the snake and the frog. Both are predators and prey as they simultaneously swallow each other and disappear. Sis missed that day of telling. An early morning phone call told her a snake bit Middle Child near the ankle. It didn't sound serious, but hours later, as tellers began to speak, another call came. Sis learned the hospital emergency room wasn't releasing Middle Child.
I advised Sis to stay at the festival--a five-hour drive from home--and let Middle Child, who is nearly 25 years old, work out the emergency with his father's help. It wasn't good advice, and Sis didn't take it. She left.
Well-mothered, Middle Child survived--snake-bitten leg intact and sleep deprived from a one-night hospital stay. Today, the snake most likely still lurks in the pine tree woods near Sis's home. No one has found it. Sis got her time to mother--as a son, no matter what the age, is still a child.
But Sis missed the tale, twice told. Snakes die when they're in the wrong place. Sometimes frogs die, too.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Socks With Sandals
As Tequila and I walk around the neighborhood, I'm often asked if I enjoy my life as an empty-nester. Most often I reply, too rapidly, "It's great." An awkward silence follows.
Whomever asked the question never says what they think out loud--but I can imagine: "Daisy and Birdie seem like such nice girls. How can their mom be so cheerful about having them gone? What don't I know about those girls? Maybe they weren't nice? Perhaps they bullied their parents, stole the last bit of ice cream from the freezer or left their undies lying in the living room. Or wait, could it be that she needed them gone--that their rooms have been rented to strangers? Perhaps, she is running a sock knitting sweatshop or breeding beagles in their bedrooms...no wait, probably not beagles--those would be too noisy."
Invariably, to break the wild train of thoughts, the questioner casts eyes downward and the simple truth reveals itself: I am wearing shapeless white socks with my beat-up sandals, a fashion choice the girls can't tolerate. They have their standards--skimpy skirts, wedged sandals, a blue-etched heart tattoo and a nose piercing. And I have mine. And now, while they are miles away, it is my time to enjoy being me.
Whomever asked the question never says what they think out loud--but I can imagine: "Daisy and Birdie seem like such nice girls. How can their mom be so cheerful about having them gone? What don't I know about those girls? Maybe they weren't nice? Perhaps they bullied their parents, stole the last bit of ice cream from the freezer or left their undies lying in the living room. Or wait, could it be that she needed them gone--that their rooms have been rented to strangers? Perhaps, she is running a sock knitting sweatshop or breeding beagles in their bedrooms...no wait, probably not beagles--those would be too noisy."
Invariably, to break the wild train of thoughts, the questioner casts eyes downward and the simple truth reveals itself: I am wearing shapeless white socks with my beat-up sandals, a fashion choice the girls can't tolerate. They have their standards--skimpy skirts, wedged sandals, a blue-etched heart tattoo and a nose piercing. And I have mine. And now, while they are miles away, it is my time to enjoy being me.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Ark Ability
When God directed Noah to build an ark, the sun shone bright in an optimistic clear sky. Of that I feel certain. No mortal, in the mother of all downpours, would leave a warm and cozy tent to whack at trees as raindrops fall in waves. God needed the ark built well in advance. What is it about long-lasting rain that reminds us we might need an ark? And who would we invite to join us on an ark should we have room to offer? I'd invite my mom as she can cook. And Big Guy can come, too. If it weren't raining, I might ask around the neighborhood and evaluate others for what they might bring to my ark, like strong arms for bailing. But right now, a nap calls to be followed by Judge Judy. Eventually, the rain will stop, I think. Chances are, I will forget to assess my neighbors for ark-ability. But there again, if I stock my ark with enough hungry lions, anyone can travel with me. I'm generous that way.
Monday, April 15, 2013
A Juice Box Or A Moon Leap
The youngest player competing in Augusta National's Masters Golf Tournament was docked a penalty stroke for slow play. Word is, in part, his mother was to blame as she followed her 14-year-old son around the course, urging him to partake of fruit and juice boxes.
I am so envious of her. I would love to follow Birdie around the University of Arkansas--a juice box at the ready should she show the slightest hint of thirst. It won't happen as my little bird would pick up a tree limb, or break off an entire tree, and beat me back to the Missouri line.
And it is not likely I would fare much better with Daisy. The sweet student nurse would likely lure me and my juice boxes into her car and then kick me out in some woodsy pasture surrounded by turkey hunters. The slightest chirp of protest and chances are my feathers would be the ones to fly.
My dear daughters don't want a mom to follow them. But I want them to know, I would if they asked. For them, I would scale rugged mountains, swim the China Sea or leap over the moon. I would eat liver. I would donate a kidney, an eye or an elbow. I would stop traffic, catch a Grand Slam baseball or learn to be a rodeo clown.
I wouldn't succeed at most of these activities the first time. But I would practice a lot and really hard. Birdie and Daisy deserve big band parade fireworks acknowledgement. They are my daughters and I'm proud of the strong, don't-follow-me-with-a-juice-box young women that they've become.
I am so envious of her. I would love to follow Birdie around the University of Arkansas--a juice box at the ready should she show the slightest hint of thirst. It won't happen as my little bird would pick up a tree limb, or break off an entire tree, and beat me back to the Missouri line.
And it is not likely I would fare much better with Daisy. The sweet student nurse would likely lure me and my juice boxes into her car and then kick me out in some woodsy pasture surrounded by turkey hunters. The slightest chirp of protest and chances are my feathers would be the ones to fly.
My dear daughters don't want a mom to follow them. But I want them to know, I would if they asked. For them, I would scale rugged mountains, swim the China Sea or leap over the moon. I would eat liver. I would donate a kidney, an eye or an elbow. I would stop traffic, catch a Grand Slam baseball or learn to be a rodeo clown.
I wouldn't succeed at most of these activities the first time. But I would practice a lot and really hard. Birdie and Daisy deserve big band parade fireworks acknowledgement. They are my daughters and I'm proud of the strong, don't-follow-me-with-a-juice-box young women that they've become.
Friday, April 12, 2013
Background Checks, Worth More Than An Ear-Lick
As I watch two U.S. Senators from different parties stand together to announce their plan to enhance firearm background checks, I fear that one will suddenly lean over and lick the ear of the other. That's what our skinny cat Cracker does to the much heavier Slim Jim right before they break into a brawl.
Get these two felines close enough for a tongue swipe,and an ear-lick fueled fight follows.
While the two first-term senators Joe Manchin (D-WV) and Pat Toomey (R-PA) strive to keep their tongues and ears to themselves, I worry that their example won't hold long enough for the Congress and the Administration to follow suit and work together to pass legislation to make it more difficult for dangerous, mentally ill people to obtain guns.
We can't prevent every tragedy. Naysayers point out that better background checks wouldn't have stopped the delusional young man who killed first-graders at Sandy Hook Elementary School in New Town, Conn. And I believe that holds also for the angry, self-entitled man who murdered my sister-in-law at St. Peters Episcopal Church in Ellicott City, Md. But that's not the point.
Our mission as a thinking people is to do what we can--even if it means starting with a bandage to patch a massive hole in gun misuse. We can do better with background checks. It is not about saving our loved ones, who are lost; it is about saving our loved ones who are still here.
If politicians can behave better than cats poised to brawl, now's the time to prove it. Don't waste the lives we have lost on an ear-lick and a partisan fight.
Get these two felines close enough for a tongue swipe,and an ear-lick fueled fight follows.
While the two first-term senators Joe Manchin (D-WV) and Pat Toomey (R-PA) strive to keep their tongues and ears to themselves, I worry that their example won't hold long enough for the Congress and the Administration to follow suit and work together to pass legislation to make it more difficult for dangerous, mentally ill people to obtain guns.
We can't prevent every tragedy. Naysayers point out that better background checks wouldn't have stopped the delusional young man who killed first-graders at Sandy Hook Elementary School in New Town, Conn. And I believe that holds also for the angry, self-entitled man who murdered my sister-in-law at St. Peters Episcopal Church in Ellicott City, Md. But that's not the point.
Our mission as a thinking people is to do what we can--even if it means starting with a bandage to patch a massive hole in gun misuse. We can do better with background checks. It is not about saving our loved ones, who are lost; it is about saving our loved ones who are still here.
If politicians can behave better than cats poised to brawl, now's the time to prove it. Don't waste the lives we have lost on an ear-lick and a partisan fight.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Conceal and Carry
Palwendy counts the days until she turns 21. Her plan: First, celebrate in Las Vegas. Second, obtain her conceal and carry permit. I know these bits and pieces as I follow her Twitter feed.
I write about Palwendy as she shares living space with my daughter Daisy. I count the days until Daisy finishes spring semester and leaves the house, owned by Palwendy and her absentee parents. I think we will beat Palwendy's legal handgun tote-around permit by a week or so.
College is a tricky time to select where you live and with whom you share space. When I met Palwendy, before Daisy signed the lease, she presented herself as a serious student who drank like a college kid, had a long term boyfriend who visited on weekends and liked to hunt.
Through my Twitter spy, my impressions of Palwendy have changed, considerably. She is a responsible hunter who is overwhelmingly passionate about the kill of the sport, and she eats what she kills. However, she is also a racist boozer who hates her housemates. The boyfriend is gone, replaced by a string of young men, and now finally another "boyfriend," one met on the internet.
And this is where my concern grows. I know that Palwendy respects the power of a rifle. But a handgun is a weapon easily set down and forgotten. Will Palwendy remember the handgun in her purse? Will she feel compelled to show her new acquisition to friends who are less respectful of a handgun's power. In a drunken moment, will she be less respectful? Will there be a new less stable, less mature man brought home? Can a bullet fired in her bedroom break through the door and somehow strike my daughter?
In the fall, Daisy moves into new living quarters with friends that are more familiar. Again, she will share space with a hunter. And that's o.k. I haven't asked Daisy if her new housemates have conceal and carry permits. I've come to realize that it is impossible to know. Someone who doesn't have a conceal and carry permit today may obtain one tomorrow. Or the visiting friend may come bearing a handgun in her purse, backpack or jacket pocket.
I learned from this Palwendy year--do not lease space from someone who owns the property where you live and also lives there. The Palwendy parents know their daughter. The mother parties with Palwendy and somehow overlooks the coarseness that permeates Palwendy's on-line presence. Not all families function the same. I wish conceal and carry advocates would consider who else, other than themselves, may carry a handgun. It might be their child's housemate. And the two may not like one another.
I write about Palwendy as she shares living space with my daughter Daisy. I count the days until Daisy finishes spring semester and leaves the house, owned by Palwendy and her absentee parents. I think we will beat Palwendy's legal handgun tote-around permit by a week or so.
College is a tricky time to select where you live and with whom you share space. When I met Palwendy, before Daisy signed the lease, she presented herself as a serious student who drank like a college kid, had a long term boyfriend who visited on weekends and liked to hunt.
Through my Twitter spy, my impressions of Palwendy have changed, considerably. She is a responsible hunter who is overwhelmingly passionate about the kill of the sport, and she eats what she kills. However, she is also a racist boozer who hates her housemates. The boyfriend is gone, replaced by a string of young men, and now finally another "boyfriend," one met on the internet.
And this is where my concern grows. I know that Palwendy respects the power of a rifle. But a handgun is a weapon easily set down and forgotten. Will Palwendy remember the handgun in her purse? Will she feel compelled to show her new acquisition to friends who are less respectful of a handgun's power. In a drunken moment, will she be less respectful? Will there be a new less stable, less mature man brought home? Can a bullet fired in her bedroom break through the door and somehow strike my daughter?
In the fall, Daisy moves into new living quarters with friends that are more familiar. Again, she will share space with a hunter. And that's o.k. I haven't asked Daisy if her new housemates have conceal and carry permits. I've come to realize that it is impossible to know. Someone who doesn't have a conceal and carry permit today may obtain one tomorrow. Or the visiting friend may come bearing a handgun in her purse, backpack or jacket pocket.
I learned from this Palwendy year--do not lease space from someone who owns the property where you live and also lives there. The Palwendy parents know their daughter. The mother parties with Palwendy and somehow overlooks the coarseness that permeates Palwendy's on-line presence. Not all families function the same. I wish conceal and carry advocates would consider who else, other than themselves, may carry a handgun. It might be their child's housemate. And the two may not like one another.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
A Seat At Her Table
I'm thinking about tables. My niece Georgia Woman--nearly two years out of college--is impatient with workplace inequity. Recently, she honed in on what she already knew: For comparable jobs, men make more money than women and men dominate leadership positions and management teams. Women wait to be judged as qualified to sit at the table, rather than nosing out a spot for themselves--asked or not and ready or not. Fed up, Georgia Woman is building her own table. With her blog entry http://connectyourmeetings.com/2013/04/03/a-seat-at-the-table/ construction is underway.
Georgia Woman works in the leisure and hospitality industry, where women fare somewhat better than average. They earn 83.5 cents on the dollar compared to men. That means if a man earns $50,000, a woman earns $41,750. If they each qualify for an end-of-year 15% bonus, the man receives $1,238 more than the woman in holiday cheer. Or consider more grimly, if both pay for a 3Xsalary death benefit and die together, the man's survivors receive nearly $25,000 more in compensation. There is an unfairness in the numbers that women work by every day.
To voice the inequity in pay is like shining a flashlight on the underside of a flipped-over a rock. What other lopsided decisions do women live by and who makes those decisions--not to mention, who benefits. Men, even with their extra pay, may not be the problem. We have to consider the silence of women. It is past time to speak up for what we believe at work, at home and in our religion. We have to push ourselves to lead even when we aren't sure where we are going and/or know that our views aren't liked.
I wonder about the form Georgia Woman intends to give her table. Sometimes a table needs to be round for listening; other times it needs a head clearly marked for where the leader sits. Once she builds her table, will Georgia Woman remember that each surface dent and scratch represents a risk taken? As a fledgling in her industry, Georgia Woman has grabbed a leadership position beyond her years. Many will applaud her. And I predict that many--including me--will want a seat at her table. This woman can lead.
Georgia Woman works in the leisure and hospitality industry, where women fare somewhat better than average. They earn 83.5 cents on the dollar compared to men. That means if a man earns $50,000, a woman earns $41,750. If they each qualify for an end-of-year 15% bonus, the man receives $1,238 more than the woman in holiday cheer. Or consider more grimly, if both pay for a 3Xsalary death benefit and die together, the man's survivors receive nearly $25,000 more in compensation. There is an unfairness in the numbers that women work by every day.
To voice the inequity in pay is like shining a flashlight on the underside of a flipped-over a rock. What other lopsided decisions do women live by and who makes those decisions--not to mention, who benefits. Men, even with their extra pay, may not be the problem. We have to consider the silence of women. It is past time to speak up for what we believe at work, at home and in our religion. We have to push ourselves to lead even when we aren't sure where we are going and/or know that our views aren't liked.
I wonder about the form Georgia Woman intends to give her table. Sometimes a table needs to be round for listening; other times it needs a head clearly marked for where the leader sits. Once she builds her table, will Georgia Woman remember that each surface dent and scratch represents a risk taken? As a fledgling in her industry, Georgia Woman has grabbed a leadership position beyond her years. Many will applaud her. And I predict that many--including me--will want a seat at her table. This woman can lead.
Monday, March 4, 2013
Yes, You Can
At the Village Inn in Bentonville, Ark., the waitress laid a plate of breakfast crepes topped with strawberries and whipped cream in front of Daisy. For Birdie, she set down a dish of scrambled eggs, crisp bacon and hash-browns. For me, it was scrambled eggs, bacon and pancakes.
At that moment--on the Sunday of Mom's Weekend at the University of Arkansas--I unwisely turned the conversation to the small hole Daisy has punched into her right nostril. It has been there for two years. And I still have a hard time accepting that my daughter paid good money to add a hole to her face.
That's when my two sweet daughters morphed into one bundle of adult independence:
"I could get my eyebrow pierced. Both eyebrows if I wanted. And I could pierce them really close to my nose, and you couldn't stop me.
"I could get the middle of my nose pierced. I could get my cheek pierced. Or my tongue pierced and wiggle the stud at you. I could get my lip pierced. "
I could even get my tongue forked," declared The Birdaisy.
"Forked?" I said.
"Yeah, forked--split in two at the tip," confirmed Birdaisy. "And tattoos--I could get as many tattoos as I want. I could get tattoos on my face and you can't stop me."
"Have you added another tattoo?" I asked Birdie.
"I don't know," she replied, with a shrug.
"Seems to me like you should know if you have another tattoo," I said. "And should either of you get your tongue forked, I want to watch."
With our independence and detachment firmly stated, we dove back into breakfast.
"Did you bring me a case of Dr. Pepper?" asked Birdie.
"No. They sell Dr. Pepper in Fayetteville and you have a car to go get it," I answered.
"And, if I put breakfast on my credit card, you'll pay me back?" asked Birdie.
"Yes, I'll pay you back," I say.
I am still mom. I will buy breakfast, but not sugary soda. And I reserve the right to say "I told you so." If there's a future family photo featuring a forked tongue, a pierced cheek or a cat permanently etched into a forehead, I won't be the one wishing for a re-do.
At that moment--on the Sunday of Mom's Weekend at the University of Arkansas--I unwisely turned the conversation to the small hole Daisy has punched into her right nostril. It has been there for two years. And I still have a hard time accepting that my daughter paid good money to add a hole to her face.
That's when my two sweet daughters morphed into one bundle of adult independence:
"I could get my eyebrow pierced. Both eyebrows if I wanted. And I could pierce them really close to my nose, and you couldn't stop me.
"I could get the middle of my nose pierced. I could get my cheek pierced. Or my tongue pierced and wiggle the stud at you. I could get my lip pierced. "
I could even get my tongue forked," declared The Birdaisy.
"Forked?" I said.
"Yeah, forked--split in two at the tip," confirmed Birdaisy. "And tattoos--I could get as many tattoos as I want. I could get tattoos on my face and you can't stop me."
"Have you added another tattoo?" I asked Birdie.
"I don't know," she replied, with a shrug.
"Seems to me like you should know if you have another tattoo," I said. "And should either of you get your tongue forked, I want to watch."
With our independence and detachment firmly stated, we dove back into breakfast.
"Did you bring me a case of Dr. Pepper?" asked Birdie.
"No. They sell Dr. Pepper in Fayetteville and you have a car to go get it," I answered.
"And, if I put breakfast on my credit card, you'll pay me back?" asked Birdie.
"Yes, I'll pay you back," I say.
I am still mom. I will buy breakfast, but not sugary soda. And I reserve the right to say "I told you so." If there's a future family photo featuring a forked tongue, a pierced cheek or a cat permanently etched into a forehead, I won't be the one wishing for a re-do.
Monday, February 11, 2013
When Holidays Collide...
Christmas. Priceless.
Easter. Invaluable.
Put 'em together and it's $32 "firm" at the antique mall.
Easter. Invaluable.
Put 'em together and it's $32 "firm" at the antique mall.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Thursday, February 7, 2013
And So My Pen Pal Wrote
(In response to Christmas Pen Pal)
Well hello (unintentional) pen pal! It's
nice to meet you! I'm so glad you have a sense of humor about my incessant
Christmas card sending. Oops. I hope Mr. Big Guy didn't bust a brain cell trying
to recall me.
My honest first response was, "Big Guy got married?!? And is a
stepfather? When did that happen?" Glad I'm not that out of touch with him
:)
I have to tell you, the Big Guy I know will get such a kick out of this
whole thing. I will never live it down.
My extended family had a full-blown
discussion about sending Christmas cards. Is it a lost art? It's not green. It
costs some decent "green". Maybe one year I'll give it up. Will I feel compelled
to keep in touch with my new Christmas pen pals? We'll see what 2013
brings!
Take care and blessed New Year to you as well.
Mosquito Man
My neighbor the vampire also gets dubbed “Mosquito Man.” In the summer, he obsesses about standing water. Mosquito Man hates blood-sucking mosquitoes and is well-schooled in
their breeding habitats.
During the hot, muggy dog-days of July, I watch from my front porch as Mosquito Man visits every yard--up and down the street—to dump standing water from neglected bird baths, forgotten flower pots and other abandoned yard debris.
M osquito
Man waves at me as I watch. He and I talk often enough that he holds complete
faith in me. He believes I never let standing water collect anywhere long enough
for a single set of mosquito parents to breed even one youngster. Sadly, that’s
not so. It is usually Mosquito Man’s wave that prompts me to go check the spots
where standing water gathers.
Usually, by August, county spray trucks have run at least once through the neighborhood. I don’t ask my neighbors what they think as that invites discussion of “chemicals and what’s safe.” And I love chemistry. It is putting my children through school.
My neighbors—with the exception of Mosquito Man—don’t know beans about mosquitoes. I know that the mosquitoes that bite people--and most mosquitoes don't--inadvertently may spread diseases that kill people. Their blood meals are far worse than my neighborhood vampire's evening stroll. As he knocks out the competition, we all win.
During the hot, muggy dog-days of July, I watch from my front porch as Mosquito Man visits every yard--up and down the street—to dump standing water from neglected bird baths, forgotten flower pots and other abandoned yard debris.
My other
neighbors—and we are a block that talks—brush off Mosquito Man’s vigilance as the
mission of a man with too much time. I straddle their conversation. Mosquito
Man is a bit overboard—but these neighbors, nice as they are, let standing
water stand and then, the blood-biters breed.
Usually, by August, county spray trucks have run at least once through the neighborhood. I don’t ask my neighbors what they think as that invites discussion of “chemicals and what’s safe.” And I love chemistry. It is putting my children through school.
My neighbors—with the exception of Mosquito Man—don’t know beans about mosquitoes. I know that the mosquitoes that bite people--and most mosquitoes don't--inadvertently may spread diseases that kill people. Their blood meals are far worse than my neighborhood vampire's evening stroll. As he knocks out the competition, we all win.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Color Choice
Sea Foam Green. Who would have thought it? I bought myself a car drenched in sea foam green. The color choice makes up for never going to prom. I never wore a princess-cut gown of sea foam green chiffon threaded with delicate pink ribbon. That's the sort of awkward color choice I might have made in high school, if only I had been asked to Senior Prom.
I think I will tie a pink satin ribbon on the antenna of my sparkling Ford Escape, officially colored "Frosted Glass." Then I will drive past the local high school and honk my horn to celebrate. Times are better. Now, girls can go Senior Prom alone, or with friends, or with a date--who might even be a girl. Or they can decide not to go at all. Whatever the choice, they have the freedom make it.
I think I will tie a pink satin ribbon on the antenna of my sparkling Ford Escape, officially colored "Frosted Glass." Then I will drive past the local high school and honk my horn to celebrate. Times are better. Now, girls can go Senior Prom alone, or with friends, or with a date--who might even be a girl. Or they can decide not to go at all. Whatever the choice, they have the freedom make it.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Ouch.
"Mom, if you are going to get a new car--get the color you really want. It might be the last car you ever buy."
Note to self: Spend my children's inheritance faster.
Note to self: Spend my children's inheritance faster.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Sugar Beets & Spinach
Within a five-minute span, my mind jumps from sugar beets to spinach to cities in St. Louis County...and then stops with Malcolm X. Names intrigue me. When I think of sugar beets, I picture huge, bright magenta sugar cubes lined up in neat rows in a field. Not exactly. Sugar beets are a root vegetable, not much more exciting than a turnip.
Spinach isn't a name issue, so much as a bait-and-switch. As a five-year-old, I begged my mother to buy canned spinach. Popeye ate it. When she caved in and bught a can, then served it--I scooped up a big forkful, tasted it, and then cried. I didn't understand "sell-out" then, but I do now. I hope Popeye is still picking that nasty green goop out of his teeth. Though if he'd been gnawing on a sugar beet, I would have wanted one of those, too.
And now--cities in St. Louis. When Big Guy and I came here searching for a house, the real estate agent handed us a St. Louis map, and said, "Where do you want to live?" On the map, Riverview, Cool Valley and Huntleigh read equally delightful. One is home to millionaires--the other two are pockets of poverty. We didn't look at homes in any of those cities. Eventually, we rented a home in Manchester-an o.k. sort of name. Eventually we moved. Now we live in St. Louis County--surrounded by cities we don't belong to.
To belong, or not to belong, reminds me again of Malcolm X. I can't begin to know the mind of Malcolm X--and if he lived in this time, and perhaps were my neighbor, he probably would make me nervous. But I think that "to belong" eluded the man. He was born into a black family in Nebraska, his father died young--and, some speculate, was murdered for his racial activism. Malcolm's mother ended up under psychiatric care, and Malcolm and his siblings bounced among foster homes. Islam grabbed Malcolm's attention, but religious and racial turmoil haunted his life until its violent end.
The X of Malcolm X intrigues me.I wonder about the moment when Malcolm X, born Malcolm Little changed his name. It is said that he viewed Little as a legacy of slavery and choose X to be in place of his lost African name. Was it in a quiet moment that he made the switch? Did he agonize? Did he consider options other than an X?
In any moment, how much power does a name carry to say who we are, what we believe or what we'd like others to believe about us?
Spinach isn't a name issue, so much as a bait-and-switch. As a five-year-old, I begged my mother to buy canned spinach. Popeye ate it. When she caved in and bught a can, then served it--I scooped up a big forkful, tasted it, and then cried. I didn't understand "sell-out" then, but I do now. I hope Popeye is still picking that nasty green goop out of his teeth. Though if he'd been gnawing on a sugar beet, I would have wanted one of those, too.
And now--cities in St. Louis. When Big Guy and I came here searching for a house, the real estate agent handed us a St. Louis map, and said, "Where do you want to live?" On the map, Riverview, Cool Valley and Huntleigh read equally delightful. One is home to millionaires--the other two are pockets of poverty. We didn't look at homes in any of those cities. Eventually, we rented a home in Manchester-an o.k. sort of name. Eventually we moved. Now we live in St. Louis County--surrounded by cities we don't belong to.
To belong, or not to belong, reminds me again of Malcolm X. I can't begin to know the mind of Malcolm X--and if he lived in this time, and perhaps were my neighbor, he probably would make me nervous. But I think that "to belong" eluded the man. He was born into a black family in Nebraska, his father died young--and, some speculate, was murdered for his racial activism. Malcolm's mother ended up under psychiatric care, and Malcolm and his siblings bounced among foster homes. Islam grabbed Malcolm's attention, but religious and racial turmoil haunted his life until its violent end.
The X of Malcolm X intrigues me.I wonder about the moment when Malcolm X, born Malcolm Little changed his name. It is said that he viewed Little as a legacy of slavery and choose X to be in place of his lost African name. Was it in a quiet moment that he made the switch? Did he agonize? Did he consider options other than an X?
In any moment, how much power does a name carry to say who we are, what we believe or what we'd like others to believe about us?
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Malcolm X
I remember the name Malcolm X scrawled in spray paint on downtown building walls in Durham, NC. The angle of the scrawl exuded anger. The name plastered where it wasn't meant to be. As a white girl, riding cocooned in our white Dodge Dart, I felt the anger directed at me.I didn't know that Malcolm X, the man, had already been dead for several years.
In the turbulence of the Civil Rights Movement, names carried power. Martin Luther King Jr. spoke of pulling together and creating a future of all men created equal. Malcolm X --as I gathered from the graffiti--didn't play by the rules, wasn't interested in peaceful change and--in his perfect world, Malcolm X had no use for white people.
Although Martin Luther King Jr. is now honored with a national holiday and Malcolm X is reduced to a footnote, I intertwine the two men as twin sides of penny. One side may be more familiar, but both sides are necessary to make the penny whole.
Malcolm X told white people that no matter what they called black people--colored, negro, or anything else--his race wasn't going to wait with infinite patience to sit at lunch counters, drink from water fountains or ride the bus. Malcolm X carried rage, distained white people and increasingly advocated violence. He provoked fear. He got attention. Eventually, he was assassinated by a group of disillusioned followers.
Without Malcolm X, would we have recognized how mad black people really were? Would we have understood that their demands for a better life weren't going to go away? Without the threat of a violent future, would Martin Luther King Jr have spoken as fervently? And would we have listened?
In the turbulence of the Civil Rights Movement, names carried power. Martin Luther King Jr. spoke of pulling together and creating a future of all men created equal. Malcolm X --as I gathered from the graffiti--didn't play by the rules, wasn't interested in peaceful change and--in his perfect world, Malcolm X had no use for white people.
Although Martin Luther King Jr. is now honored with a national holiday and Malcolm X is reduced to a footnote, I intertwine the two men as twin sides of penny. One side may be more familiar, but both sides are necessary to make the penny whole.
Malcolm X told white people that no matter what they called black people--colored, negro, or anything else--his race wasn't going to wait with infinite patience to sit at lunch counters, drink from water fountains or ride the bus. Malcolm X carried rage, distained white people and increasingly advocated violence. He provoked fear. He got attention. Eventually, he was assassinated by a group of disillusioned followers.
Without Malcolm X, would we have recognized how mad black people really were? Would we have understood that their demands for a better life weren't going to go away? Without the threat of a violent future, would Martin Luther King Jr have spoken as fervently? And would we have listened?
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Christmas Pen Pal
Big Guy has a pen pal. For the second year in a row, he has received a Christmas card addressed to him, alone. Pen Pal includes a chatty little note and a photo of her family. The only problem--she is sending her card to the wrong "Big Guy." My Big Guy isn't the one that used to work with Pen Pal. Somewhere there is someone with the same name that Pen Pal knows and cares enough about to keep up with, once a year. But it's not my "Big Guy."
When Pen Pal's first Christmas card arrived, Big Guy double-checked and triple-checked his memory. He doesn't know Pen Pal. I sent a Christmas card--signed Big Guy and the Girls--back to her. I figured she'd sort through her mistake and move on to the right Big Guy.
That didn't happen. About a month ago, Big Guy received Pen Pal's annual Christmas card along with a fresh photo of Pen Pal, her husband and her toddler daughter. They are a cute family. Again, she included a Christmas catch-up note. Once again, Big Guy searched his memory--he doesn't know her. And neither do I--except sort of, I do.
I used to be Pen Pal, juggling a toddler (or two) with laundry, writing assignments, and the nitty-gritty of life. Most of the year, I did well. Then Christmas slipped into the mix and I went into over-drive. We bought the fresh tree, crafted hand-made gifts, slapped the girls' paint-embellished hand prints on sweat shirts, ornaments, cards and anything that stood still long enough. We did the Santa scene. And we drove with the girls strapped in car seats through neighborhoods lit up like Las Vegas. And, without fail, I'd come up with a perky Christmas letter and photo to stuff into cards. I wanted perfect bliss for my starter family.
I got memorable. Inevitably, Birdie or Daisy would catch a cold; a snowstorm would slow our 11-hour drive home or I'd run out of ribbon--after a while in the Christmas chaos, it didn't take something large to put me off my cheery overdrive pace. But year-after-year, the Christmas letters went out without fail.
Then one year, I didn't send out cards--and it felt so good.
I love the Christmases we have now--but they aren't as sweet. Birdie and Daisy are in college--and gift cards are their version of a box with a book. I ditched the real tree as no one helps pick up fallen needles. And until midnight mass moves to 9 p.m., I'm not going. But there was a time when I did it all, kind of like Pen Pal.
As I look at her card, addressed to "Mr. Big Guy," I feel a tickle of the do-it-all days of Christmas. Big Guy and I will send Pen Pal a card--soon because it's OK to send a card in January. And next December, if Pen Pal sends a card, maybe I'll revive my Christmas letter. If she can do it, with a toddler, I can do it without one.
When Pen Pal's first Christmas card arrived, Big Guy double-checked and triple-checked his memory. He doesn't know Pen Pal. I sent a Christmas card--signed Big Guy and the Girls--back to her. I figured she'd sort through her mistake and move on to the right Big Guy.
That didn't happen. About a month ago, Big Guy received Pen Pal's annual Christmas card along with a fresh photo of Pen Pal, her husband and her toddler daughter. They are a cute family. Again, she included a Christmas catch-up note. Once again, Big Guy searched his memory--he doesn't know her. And neither do I--except sort of, I do.
I used to be Pen Pal, juggling a toddler (or two) with laundry, writing assignments, and the nitty-gritty of life. Most of the year, I did well. Then Christmas slipped into the mix and I went into over-drive. We bought the fresh tree, crafted hand-made gifts, slapped the girls' paint-embellished hand prints on sweat shirts, ornaments, cards and anything that stood still long enough. We did the Santa scene. And we drove with the girls strapped in car seats through neighborhoods lit up like Las Vegas. And, without fail, I'd come up with a perky Christmas letter and photo to stuff into cards. I wanted perfect bliss for my starter family.
I got memorable. Inevitably, Birdie or Daisy would catch a cold; a snowstorm would slow our 11-hour drive home or I'd run out of ribbon--after a while in the Christmas chaos, it didn't take something large to put me off my cheery overdrive pace. But year-after-year, the Christmas letters went out without fail.
Then one year, I didn't send out cards--and it felt so good.
I love the Christmases we have now--but they aren't as sweet. Birdie and Daisy are in college--and gift cards are their version of a box with a book. I ditched the real tree as no one helps pick up fallen needles. And until midnight mass moves to 9 p.m., I'm not going. But there was a time when I did it all, kind of like Pen Pal.
As I look at her card, addressed to "Mr. Big Guy," I feel a tickle of the do-it-all days of Christmas. Big Guy and I will send Pen Pal a card--soon because it's OK to send a card in January. And next December, if Pen Pal sends a card, maybe I'll revive my Christmas letter. If she can do it, with a toddler, I can do it without one.
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